Addicted to Blow

I often get asked how I manage to have a designer crammed closet when my annual salary is inferior to a Zookeeper shoveling elephant dung five days a week. Beg? Often. Borrow? Sometimes. Steal? Only from my Mother. Papa cut off the Back to School wardrobe sometime in the mid-nineties when I laid my eyes on my first pair of Oriental-inspired wedge Prada shoes in sixth grade (Posh Spice sported the same stiletto version during her first phase of global domination). But like any addiction, it only get worse with time unless there is intervention. When your Mother corrects you as a toddler that it is not channel but Chanel, you know that you have to find a way to get a designer fix because fashion sobriety is not a lifestyle option.

The advantage I have over others living in NYC and working in fashion is the equally loved and hated sample sale. Out and about running an errand today I found myself at 57th and Madison making an appearance at the biggest event of the year, the Prada sample sale!!! It is something that I have yet to experience and only heard urban myths of give away prices of ready-to-wear gems that never even saw the light of retail institutions. After a brief stint in line I entered the bright white sterile room, what I imagine the gates of heaven to be, to a reenactment of the scene in Mean Girls when the teenagers suddenly become wild ferocious beasts clawing each other for a brown fringe bag. In a sea of turbans and satin jeweled-toned mini skirts I was able to capture a beautiful peacock hat for an undeniable $25.00. I am addicted to Blow, Isabella that is, and her known addiction of choice was eccentric head gear. My Prada peacock is my way of honoring the fallen style icon.

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